I place myself at your feet
by SilverMoonPhantom
Summary: Castiel is still falling, and Dean takes care of some things for him.


As Castiel lost his powers, more and more things became difficult.  
It was harder to fly, more tiring every day to keep his vessel in order. When Sam suggested he go about things the human way, he was justifiably annoyed. He was thousands of years old, a being of light and energy. The whims of one tiny, fleshy body should not be a problem.

It wasn't until halfway through being overwhelmed by a vampire nest that he realized he wasn't exactly an angel anymore.

Returning to the Winchester brothers' motel room was an exercise in patience. Too tired to fly, too frustrated with his own mortal body to put much effort into walking, Castiel shuffled sullenly to the door. He stood for a few minutes, staring at the flaking paint and rusted metal door number.

The cell phone in his pocket started ringing, a familiar tune that told him who exactly was calling. It stopped abruptly without him touching it, and the motel door swung open.

Dean looked worried as he pulled Castiel inside, patting down his shoulders and turning him around. Questions of 'Are you hurt?' and 'Why didn't you call, I would have picked you up' just served to reiterate how tired he felt.

He pulled out of Dean's hands, sitting heavily on an uncomfortable chair next to the A/C unit. Head bowed, shoulders hunched and every line of his body screaming 'exhausted' he wasn't surprised when Dean fell silent.

He vaguely registered the man kneeling down next to him, didn't respond when the smooth skin on the back of Dean's hand pressed against his forehead. The hand lingered, brushing over his temple where a spot of vampire blood had dried.

Dean's voice was soft as his fingertips carded through dark hair, gently probing in search for damaged areas. "You've had a rough time, huh. Not looking so good."

Castiel sighed, tilting his head into the touch. He didn't react when calloused fingers slid down the back of his neck, tugging at different places along the collar of his shirt. There was a brush of cotton against the side of his neck before he realized Dean had shifted, hands flipping deftly through silk to undo the blue tie at his collarbone.

"Looking pretty gritty there, dude." The tone of his voice was softer than usual, it was strange. Soothing.

Hands pulled at the lapels of his overcoat, pulling one side of it open over his shoulder. Castiel moved his arm to allow the man to do whatever he wished.

"I'll get you some new clothes, you just chill for a sec."

The slide of cloth and sudden loss of a familiar weight inspired him to lift his head, watching as Dean took his coat into the bathroom, the sound of running water starting up. He lifted his hand, slowly unbuttoning the white undershirt, shrugging out of the suit jacket. They were all pretty filthy, mud and blood and sweat from this disobedient body. Castiel leaned to the side, his shoulder hitting the patterned wallpaper, side of his head following shortly afterward.

Dean's footsteps were obvious when he approached, Castiel's suit jacket pulled easily from where it had pooled around his waist. The white shirt followed, leaving goosebumps trailing up his forearms.

"Y'wanna take a shower? Water should be warm by now."

Blue eyes opened, sliding up to meet a still-worried face and searching green eyes. Castiel nodded, moving to stand up, and not even commenting when Dean reached out and steadied him by the elbow.

The shower was warm, water beating against his shoulders and slicking away grime he didn't even realize had accumulated. He used the strange-smelling soap provided by the motel, and froze when Dean entered the bathroom. There was a soft thump and the scrape of ceramic.

"I grabbed you a towel, we already used up the complimentary ones. Feel free to use my shampoo if you want, or Sam's if you want 'silky smooth' shit." He wasn't even looking, but the air-quotes were obvious in Dean's voice. A quick patter of sound, like fingers drumming against wood. Inhaled breath, cut off as words were swallowed away. The bathroom door closed, and Castiel regarded his choices.

In the end, he did choose Dean's shampoo, a red bottle that boasted it was just as good as name-brand. Shampoo/Body wash combo. The blue ooze was interesting, smelled similar to the green-eyed hunter. The suds were enjoyable, wicking down his shoulders and back, tickling along the back of his legs.

He inhaled steam, feeling a bit better than before.

The curtain rattled when he exited, tiles cold and wet under his feet. When he finally dried himself to satisfactory levels, Castiel exited the bathroom, finding himself watching Dean hunched over the sink, hands working to scrub at a spot on his tan coat. His sleeves were rolled up, muscles flexing along the line of his back.

"I left some clothes on the bed, they should fit you." The man didn't turn to face him, but as Castiel moved toward the mentioned area, he caught a glimpse of green eyes watching him in the mirror.

There was a pair of black slacks, pale blue, cotton undergarments and a dark button-up shirt. He dressed himself easily enough, soft cloth sliding over clean skin feeling wonderful.

Castiel paused as he buttoned up the trousers, lifting his head to stare at the wall opposite to him. He was quite a bit smaller than either of the men, but neither the shirt nor pants felt horribly over-sized. He turned to look at Dean, who was now pouring over the lengths of tan cloth, examining it for any more flaws to scrub away.

There was no time during his shower to leave the room and come back, so they must have purchased clothing that would fit him, in case something like this happened.

He left the shirt unbuttoned, wandering closer to the other man.

His coat was hung on a thin metal triangle in the closet, a towel placed under, to catch dripping water. The falling angel could see one of the seams had torn, threads hanging wet and a bit sad-looking. Dean was flipping through the suit jacket and collared shirt, speaking aloud his thoughts.

"These can probably go in a washing machine. Sam has enough whites to make a load for this." Castiel cocked his head, understanding the first half, while the second was beyond him. Likely some aspect of the washing process, he wouldn't comment.

Green eyes swept over his mortal body, lingering along the exposed strip of flesh down his front. He had seen the brothers dress like this on occasion. Perhaps he was mistaken about appropriate context.

"You can go to sleep, if you want. I still have some things to do, and Sam'll be back later."

Castiel turned on his heel, sliding on top of the covers and burying his face into the white pillows. Now that he was down, the weariness of his body seemed to increase threefold, leaving his eyes drooping quickly.

Sleep swallowed him, warm and comfortable.

He woke once, when the door opened and closed, Sam and Dean's voice mixing quietly together. Whispering for his sake. Turning his head and feeling the rasp of stubble scrape against cloth, Castiel watched Sam sit at his laptop, shrug off his coat and begin tapping away. Dean had his feet propped on the table, swathes of tan cloth over his lap and a tiny flash of silver moving with his hands.

It made sense, in his head. Both boys were able to stitch wounds closed. It only followed that they'd be able to mend cloth, just as well as flesh.

Sleep crept up on him that time, the thought trailing off and engulfed. He didn't even realize he had fallen asleep until he awoke the next morning.


End file.
